


Brève Rencontre

by amelie_drinking_tea



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: M/M, Modern Era, Prison
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-21
Updated: 2015-08-21
Packaged: 2018-04-16 11:33:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4623798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amelie_drinking_tea/pseuds/amelie_drinking_tea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Feuilly knew better than to judge a person by their appearance, but he was also street smart enough to take into consideration the fact that he was in jail with a guy who could easily break every bone in his body."</p><p>Feuilly and Bahorel meet for the first time, only to find out they had already known each other (in a way).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brève Rencontre

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Joeytoe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Joeytoe/gifts).



**Brève Rencontre**

 

Feuilly wasn't the type of guy who'd go complain to his friends about his heartaches. God, he wasn't even the type of guy who'd say “damn, it's hot” during the heaviest days of summer. Meaning he'd rather die of hyperthermia than ask someone for a glass of cold water. Meaning he basically bottled up everything concerning his personal life. Ask him for help, and he'd be right there, to lend you money, to make you a cup of coffee, to drive you safely home (had he a car, of course).

Ask him to say what was bothering him… well, that was a whole other story.

Not that in the very present situation that question would be needed. At all.

Sitting on the bottom mattress of a suspiciously unsteady bunkerbed, it was more than obvious what was bothering him.

He was in fucking prison, for starters.

Not that he hadn't thought something like that would eventually happen. He'd been a very active member of the Craft Labor Union for the past two years, and it was really just a matter of time till some bigshot mass production industry noticed him. And got worried.

It was in times like these that he wished, in the back of his mind, that he had a family of some sort. Even if it were just to give him moral support. He had friends he knew he could count on, but he'd never reach for them. After all, they had no obligation with him, plus, they had so much in hands he could never bother them with his personal problems.

He found himself so absort in his thoughts he practically jumped from his seat when he heard the following words:

“Alright, for fuck's sake! I'm walking!”

Next thing he knew, a freakishly tall, dark-skinned man was standing in front of him, shoved inside the cell by a police officer.

Feuilly was dumbstruck as he noticed there were tattoos all over his arms and about ten piercings on his left ear. He had a scar on his right eyebrow and a fresh bruise on his chin. Feuilly knew better than to judge a person by their appearance, but he was also street smart enough to take into consideration the fact that he was in jail with a guy who could easily break every bone in his body.

He made his best to avoid eye contact, even purposedly letting a few strands of dark brown hair cover half his face as he leaned even closer to the wall.

That, though, was obviously not going to make him go unnoticed. The guy scrutinized him as if he were a piece of meat. Or so it felt.

“Hey man, don't I know you?” the big guy stooped down so he could have a better look at Feuilly's tired face.

“Ahn, I… don't think so.” was all he answered. If foster homes had taught him anything, it was that you never acknowledge a stranger who could kick your ass. Even if they do look familiar.

The tall guy shrugged absent-mindly, turning to the bench on the other side of the cell. He sat down.

“What are you here for, anyway? You look way too delicate to have done any serious damage.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” Feuilly raised his voice without realizing it.

The other man smirked.

“I just meant you look fragile, that's all.”

“Screw you.” Feuilly simply answered, matter-of-factly. All he'd learned in his years of dealing with low-lifes and thugs in the worst neighborhoods of Paris forgotten just like that. The guy had been in there for like five seconds! What's with all the cheekiness? What the fuck!

To that he heard a burst of laughter.

“Oh, little guy is tough!”

“What's your problem? Leave me alone.”

“I'm just trying to make conversation, man, that's all. So I see despite looking fragile, you're also sensitive.”

What the hell? Feuilly knew he didn't look particularly threatening (he was five foot six and did look like teenager, despite being almost twenty six), but what kind of person just enters a prison cell and starts provoking their cellmate like that?

Feuilly opened his mouth to give a mean reply to that when something heavenly made him regain his calm and take a deep breath before leaning back and closing his eyes. He was most definitely not having a chit chat with that guy. That was just not gonna happen.

“What? You're gonna give me the silent treatment now? Well, excuse me, mr. “I'm too good to talk to another inmate, even though I am an inmate myself.”

Feuilly took another deep breath. Well, that at least dicarded the possibility of him being the “caveman type”, those brutes who beat you up first, _and then_ asked questions. For some unknown reason, he felt he didn't have to worry about being broken in fifty pieces just for answering a couple of questions. And he'd be lying if he said he didn't need to vent a little.

That could, of course, prove to be a very stupid move.

“I was framed.” He then said. “I got on the wrong side of the wrong people.”

“Wow! Did you hear that in a movie? That sounds really mysterious and cool.”

“Do you think this is a joke?” Feuilly had already lost the aprehension he first felt when the other man started talking. There was something about him who actually inspired a twisted kind of confidence. He knew that wasn't wise at all, still he asked “Why are _you_ here?”

“Well, basically, a bar fight.”

Feuilly snorted.

“Come on!”

“I'm serious. I was on the Rue des Étudiants having a beer, minding my own business, when this asshole started making passes on my friend Éponine, like being a real douche, calling her names and stuff. So I told him to quit being such a dick and leave her alone. Well, he told me to fuck off and she told him to get lost and yeah, something happened in between which I'm not really sure what it was, then next thing I know, we were all rolling on the floor. I know I look like shit, but you should see the other guy. I'm Bahorel, by the way, nice meeting you.” The guy reached out his hand, a bright smile on his face.

Feuilly shook his hand, dumbfounded. The name did sound familiar, though.

“I'm Feuilly. I reckon this isn't your first time in prison, is it?”

“How did you guess?”

“Something tells me you've been here before under similiar circumstances.”

“Can't say that I haven't. Man, I honestly feel like I've seen you before…” Bahorel was once again analyzing Feuilly's face with deep interest. “How exactly were you framed?”

Feuilly shrugged, as if that whole situation hadn't exactly caught him by surprise.

“I've been working with a few union groups lately and we've been trying to erect some barriers to new workers entering the manufacturing area.”

“Why would you do that?” Bahorel asked, seeming genuinely intrigued.

Feuilly was taken aback by his interest.

“Well, the resulting shortage of workers pushes up wages and gives the union greater leverage. Which isn't exactly great news to mass production industries...”

“Say no more. Did a corporate asshole lawyer manage to find a breach in your union's code of conduct and used it to fuck you over?”

“Well, yeah, actually. How did you know that?”

“These types are the worst! I have to deal with them all the time.”

“How exactly do you have to deal with them?” Feuilly frowned, suspiciously.

“Well, I'm a law student, which is just a fancy way of saying I'm an underpaid intern. I run arrows for big companies all the time.”

“Meaning you work for the enemy.” Feuilly smiled knowingly, unable to hide the scorn in his voice.

Bahorel didn't seem offended at all. In fact, he was beaming!

“Well, Union fella, let's just say you only get inside information on enterprises and their evil plans because of the likes of me.”

“Fair enough.” Feuilly thought about something for a few seconds before adding “Maybe you should come to the Musain sometime...”

“The Musain?” Bahorel laughed out loud, complete joy all over his face. “Don't tell me you're a member of Les Amis de l'ABC?”

“You know them?!”

“Do I know them? I'm the reason they lasted this long! I don't think you have a clear idea of the amount of unorganized political groups there are in this city. I know them all. And although I'm not an official member of any, I make sure everyone knows what the other is doing, so no one gets caught off guard when a riot comes along.”

“Oh fuck! You're our connection! I knew your name sounded familiar!”

“Is that what they call me?” Bahorel looked utterly amused. “I can live with that. Pardon my saying, but you don't look like a student, which is the hugest compliment I could ever give you, to be honest.”

Feuilly looked pleased. At least, he wasn't making fun of his appearance anymore, which was a plus.

“I can barely afford housing and food, I don't see a college degree anywhere near my future. Anyway, the way I look at it, it didn't seem to do much good to the people who had such privilege. If you're not willing to give back to the people, then it's just a bunch of wasted knowledge.”

“You're right on that, my friend.” Bahorel sat on the floor now, stretching his legs, letting out a groan. “If there's one thing my parents taught me, is that higher education doesn't always equal intelligence.”

“The only mother I've ever known was this ruthless city, and if there's anything she taught me, is that it hardly ever does so.”

Bahorel smiled knowingly, but said nothing. How strange it was that a few minutes ago, they were both strangers and now they made each other silent in introspection.

Feuilly had always felt a bit curious about the indentity of their connection link, but had never had the opportunity of meeting them. He definitely had a different image of them in his head, but he couldn't say he was disappointed.

He was in no way disappointed, actually.

After a short period of mutual silence (in which he realized he wanted to keep talking), Feuilly asked:

“How long are you staying here?”

“Probably just the night. They thought I was drunk. You?”

“The public defender said I'll probably be out in three or four days.”

“Do the guys at the Musain know you're here?”

“No, and I don't want them to. They have their hands full already, with the elections coming and all. Plus, my being here has nothing to do with Les Amis.”

“Won't they notice you're gone?”

“They know I'm engaged in other activities, I've been gone for longer.”

Bahorel only nodded, his expression showing some concern.

“You know”, he continued after a second, “I think I saw you at the Musain once. I mean, I don't usually go there, but there was this one time Enjolras insisted I'd take a look at the coordinates of their civil rights demonstration, so you guys wouldn't hinder the gender rights rally going on at the same day on Rue Saint-Jacques. You were teaching Jehan how to paint fans or something.”

Feuilly felt himself faintly blush.

“How can you remember that? It was months ago.”

“Well, I thought you were very skillful, it stuck with me.” Bahorel shrugged, still smiling.

“Ahn... thank you.” Feuilly just said. He had no idea what to respond to that and he felt a bit awkward. If they weren't in a freaking jail cell right now, he'd say the other man was… flirting? But that would be way too bizarre considering where they were right now. Still, he tried hard to keep his skin color to a non-redish tone.

“So, ahn… you know Jehan?”

Bahorel looked down, smirking, realizing the other was feeling a bit embarrassed. Half of him wanted to fix that, the other half thought teasing him was too amusing and he could do that all night long.

“Yeah, yeah… I know him.”

 

___________________________//_________________________

 

The next evening, Feuilly found himself alone again. An officer had come for Bahorel, who had simply nodded to him as he was escorted out of the cell, stating a “i guess i'll see you around”, followed by a wink. And that was that.

“What a weird guy.” He thought to himself. He'd like to have been his friend, though. He missed having someone to talk to sometimes. Of course, he had several comrades, who he considered to be good, reliable friends. However, each of them had someone they were closer to inside the group, and he kinda missed that intimacy.

He cursed himself for it. How pathetic. The deliverance of the people should be his only concern. The revolution his one true companion.

He closed his eyes, and the image of Bahorel was all he could see. Their connecting link. The man who wandered through every alley and drank every wine and saw every sparkle of anarchy, every sight of subversion through the streets of Paris. He'd enjoyed his company.

And with thoughts of uprising and big dark brown eyes and tattoos and piercings, he fell asleep late that night.

 

________________________//_________________________

 

Exactly five days after their unexpected encounter, Feuilly was finally to be released. The prosecutor had deemed the whole accusation unsupported, due to the lack of actual material evidence of any irregularities in the Union's procedures. Feuilly got his personal belongings at the front counter and started walking to the exit, feeling exhausted. He thought about all his accumulated work, and his long way back to his little _chambre de bonne._

He had just gotten to the corner of the police station when the blow of a horn startled him, causing him to jump to the left instinctvily.

“Where do you think you're going, mon chéri?” He heard a mocking voice call him, making him turn around immediately.

On a beaten up motorcycle, he saw Bahorel, holding a spare helmet in his arm.

“What are you doing here?” Feuilly asked, astounded.

“I came to pick you up, obviously.”

“There is nothing obvious about any of this.” Feuilly let out a small laugh. “How did you know I was getting out today?”

“I have ears and eyes everywhere, of course. Plus, I know every public defender in this district. So are you coming or not?”

Feuilly shook his head in disbelief. He never in a million years thought something that bizarre could happen to him. Even though he knew Bahorel's credencials, he'd literally met him in prison.

“Where are we going?” He inquired, taking the spare helmet and hopping on awkwardly.

“We're getting breakfast at Vieille-du-Temple.”

“That's on the other side of the city!”

“Yeah, but you've just spent weeks in prison, you need a decent breakfast, and that's the place to go.”

“Why are you doing this for me?” Feuilly whispered in Bahorel's ear, as he started the engine. “You barely know me.”

“Oh well, you know...” Bahorel smiled at the intimate act, even though Feuilly couldn't see it. “A friend of the people is a friend of mine.”

For some reason Feuilly couldn't quite explain, he felt relieved.

And they drove down into Rue Mouffetard, leaving nothing but dead leaves behind.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> English is not my first language, so if you spot any grammar errors or strange wording, please let me know.
> 
> This fic is my b-day gift to Alex! : ) Feliz Cumpleaños, querida! Espero que te guste la história!


End file.
